


Sinner In Secret

by taormina



Category: Take That (Band)
Genre: AU, First Kiss, First Meetings, Light Angst, Love at First Sight, M/M, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Public Sex, Sex on a Car, Weddings, boys bonding over music, gary in charge, gary the wedding singer, very porny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-04-05 22:44:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4197852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taormina/pseuds/taormina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU: Mark really fancies the singer at Robbie’s wedding reception.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sinner In Secret

In his free time, Mark liked writing and composing songs — _preferably_ love songs. It was a hobby that not many of his mates knew about. Mark was so ashamed of his dreams of becoming a successful artist that he preferred keeping his favourite pastime to himself. If he died never having heard a song of his played on the radio, at least he’d be taking his secret to the grave with him. It would hurt a lot less that way.

At least, that's what he kept telling himself.

Still, it’s not like he had much time to write and daydream, anyway. Now that his best mate Rob was getting married, and the bank Mark was working at was struggling to keep its doors open, Mark never really had a moment to himself.

For the past few weeks, Mark’s life had entirely been dedicated to serving clients, testing wedding cakes, advising clients for or against setting up new bank accounts, finding the right wedding location, being threatened by his employer and finding a dog sitter for Rob and Ayda’s dog. As both Rob’s best man _and_ wedding organizer  – Ayda had, rightly, spent so much money on her wedding dress that they couldn't afford  a proper party planner – Mark had to think about everything and anything.

To make matters worse, he hadn’t had sex for a month. _A month_.He couldn’t even pleasure himself at home because he always had colleagues or mates round to talk about work or Rob’s upcoming wedding —and no, none of his colleagues or mates were attractive enough to drunkenly hook up with. It was fucking awful, and Mark couldn't wait for it all to be over. All he wanted was to be able to put his feet up and do nothing for the rest of the year.

Most of all, he wanted to find someone to stop making him feel so goddamned horny all the time.

Many frustrating weeks later, it was June. The day of the wedding finally had arrived, and everything proceeded beautifully. Everyone looked gorgeous, Ayda was fashionably late by only ten minutes, people cried, people laughed, and by the time the happy couple had completed their vows, Mark could safely say it was the most stunning wedding ceremony he had ever witnessed.

Everyone moved to a small mansion in the English country for the wedding reception an hour later. Rob’s boss had kindly agreed to rent  the mansion for the afternoon and evening, and it had taken Mark and a bunch of mates about four hours the previous day to decorate everything. By the time the wedding party moved into the building, it looked spotless.

The festivities were well underway when someone tapped Mark’s shoulder. Mark turned around, and he was presented with a near-perfect image of a man: really, really great hair, stubble in all the right places, very thick thighs. The stranger was only a few inches taller than Mark, and not much older, Mark thought. He was wearing a well-tailored suit that hugged all the right muscles. Mark felt himself blush. He must be a mate of Rob’s.

‘Erm, I'm here to provide entertainment?’ said the man. He had a very nice voice, smooth and slow. _Sexy_. Mark guessed he came from the Manchester area like he did.

Mark looked him up and down hungrily. ‘I _bet_ you are,’ he said in the voice that he only used when he was flirting with someone. If this was Rob’s way of thanking him for doing such a good job at organizing his wedding reception, he hoped more of his mates would decide to get married soon. It _had_ been way too long.

The corners of the man’s mouth twitched. ‘No, er, I mean, I _am_ the entertainment.’ Mark had no idea what he was going on about. He was too busy staring at the guy’s mouth. ‘I’m . . . Gary Barlow? We spoke on the phone.’

‘Oh.’ Mark suddenly remembered. ‘Right. Okay. _Shit_.’

‘This a bad time?’

‘No, no, not at all. It’s just . . .’ Mark vaguely gestured at Gary. His cockiness from seconds ago had disappeared entirely. ‘I didn’t think you’d be so handsome. I – I meant, dressed up. _Fuck_ ,’ he added under his breath.

This wasn’t going at all like he had planned.

As for that evening’s entertainment, Mark and Rob hadn't really seen eye to eye. Rob wished to entertain the guests with a “performance” of his own, but Mark – knowing that a singing Robbie, especially an intoxicated and/or very happy one, usually ended up taking his kit off – insisted that they hire a professional singer instead. (If their budget allowed it, anyway.)

In the end, they more or less found a middle ground: Mark would hire a wedding singer, and Rob promised that he’d only do one song on his own — preferably by the _end_ of the party. Most guests would then be too drunk to notice Rob’s questionable singing anyway.

Mark, being rather pressed for time, hadn't really paid attention when he booked the wedding singer several months ago. A cousin of a mate of a sister of a colleague of his spoke very highly of a certain “artiste” from Manchester, so one day Mark simply ended up phoning the guy for enquiries. Several e-mails were sent back and forth about the proceedings, and that’s how Mark ended up booking a wedding singer whom he hadn’t even seen any pictures of videos of.

Mark didn't know anything at all about the singer, really, apart from the fact that one, he could sing; two, he was a singer; three, he sang love songs; four, he had a very pleasant speaking voice; five, he was _slightly_ above their budget, and six, his name was Gary Barlow.

In other words, Mark had just tried to flirt with the wedding singer.  
  
Thankfully, Gary seemed unfazed by this. Perhaps he even enjoyed it.

Gary scanned the room and found out that, indeed, he _was_ more smartly dressed than more than half of the people that had gathered. Most of the male guests had gotten rid of their jackets by now, Mark included. Some of them had even put on the colourful hats and boas that Ayda’s female friends had brought along, matching their vibrant shirts. Apart from Ayda, Gary was the only person in the room who was wearing even the tiniest amount of white. 

‘So, er,’ said Gary absent-mindedly, continuing the string of thought that Mark had conveniently discarded, ‘D’you want me to take me jacket off, or…?’

‘Yes, please,’ said Mark a bit too enthusiastically. His brain took a few seconds to catch up with the words he had blurted out. ‘I mean, no. Er. . .?’

Mark scratched the back of his head. He couldn't remember the last time a guy had made him feel so goddamn nervous. Usually it was the other way around, with Mark rendering every gay or sexually confused guy an awkward mess. He _loved_ having that effect on men. To now be on the receiving end of it all was rather confusing — not to mention frustrating because it meant he had no idea where to go from here.

Gary bit his lip and said nothing, and stared at the empty space where a podium should be. ‘Where’d’you want me, anyway?’

‘ _Huh_?’ Mark squeaked.

‘Where do you want me to perform?’ Gary repeated, pointing at the empty space on the ballroom floor. ‘It’s virgin territory for me, to be honest, performing without a stage.’

‘Vir—’ Mark didn’t continue his sentence. He rubbed the space between his eyes as though there was a pain that needed rubbing away. He was actually pointlessly trying to rid his mind of the inappropriate thoughts that were flooding it. ‘Right,’ he said after a while, more to himself than to Gary. ‘No stage.’

‘Nah,’ said Gary. He casually waved his hand in the air, flicking away an imaginary problem. ‘It'll be fine. Just prefer being able to see the faces in the crowd, is all.’ He put his hands inside his pockets. ‘Have you and the happy couple agreed on the song choices I emailed you about?’

Mark tried to recall the emails that he and Gary had sent back and forth, but his mind still lingered on something Gary had said earlier. He was doing an awful job at being a party planner. ‘Er, remind me?’

‘Jesus, you’ve forgotten already?’ He squinted. ‘You’re not drunk, are you, Mark?’

It was the first time Gary had said his name out loud. It was as though Mark had never heard his name before; hearing Gary say it suddenly made it real, like Gary had partly taken ownership of it and branded him with imaginary ink. He wanted Gary to say his name again and again, confirming that he was alive and real.

Mark said casually, ‘Not drunk, just distracted by your face. Facebook! Page.’ He cringed; this was going _horribly_. Thankfully, Gary had the courtesy to pretend otherwise. ‘Er, there's a song list on your Facebook page, yeah?’

Gary frowned. ‘You've . . . changed your mind? Seen something else you fancied?’

Mark nodded slowly, trying to figure out how to crawl out of the hole he’d dug for himself. Truth is, he had _not_ been on Gary's Facebook page – if he had then Mark would at least have known how _hot_ Gary is – and he could not for the life of him remember what they had agreed upon. He didn’t want to lie to Gary, either.

‘Just, er . . . You know what, just hit me up. I'll, erm . . .’ Mark gestured at a guy who was standing next to a large speaker set. ‘Just talk to Dave over there, he'll help you set up while I . . . go bang me head against a wall.’

Mark wanted to die. He had never been so stupid around a guy ever. _Ever_.

‘Interesting choice of words, that,’ said Gary quietly. He smiled at Mark warmly. He seemed to be considering something, then said, ‘D’you know what, I've had worse first chats than this.’

 _First_.

Mark felt his nerves disappear. _God, he needed a drink_. ‘Are you . . . suggesting we have another?’

Gary wiggled his eyebrows suggestively and went over to Dave without another word.

_They were definitely going to have another chat._

+++

Time passed in an unfamiliar manner while Gary prepared himself for his performance, leaving Mark to stare at him from a distance, wondering why this stranger was having such an effect on him. Gary was a hunk and a half, but there was something else about him that Mark couldn't quite put his finger on. It was screaming at Mark through neon signs and spotlights, and yet he couldn't see.

Gary started his set a while later. He had somehow managed to find a stool and piano despite Mark having forgotten to arrange . . . well, pretty much everything, really, and he worked his socks off from the very first note. The man clearly knew how to entertain.

Gary had an amazing singing voice to match his great looks and stage presence, and before he effortlessly rose to the chorus of his first cover, he had already grabbed everyone’s attention. All the guests were hanging onto every word he sang. Somehow, he managed to turn even the blandest of love songs into little gems.

Mark wondered if Gary had a musical background, and the blanks in his mind pertaining to why he felt so attracted to him were suddenly being filled in.

Mark's attention was drawn to Gary's fingers touching the keys of the piano, and everything became a mix of curiosity, admiration and desire. He no longer knew whether he would rather talk to Gary about where he had learned to play the piano like that or be played _by_ him instead.

Then Gary ended his set with a song that Mark had never heard before, and the final pieces of the puzzle slotted into space. Gary wasn’t only a performer with a knack for singing covers of love songs; Gary was a _writer_. Like Mark. _Gary wrote songs._ The only place where Mark had ever met fellow writers was at elitist record labels, and they all turned out to be pricks. Gary was a lot of things that Mark had yet to define and find out about, but he definitely wasn't a prick.

Gary was _good_ at writing, too: the song he did last was a slow, piano-led love song, and it contained some of the most heartfelt lyrics Mark had ever heard. Melodically the song wasn't miles away from the stuff Mark usually wrote in his cheap apartment, and it only made him crave any kind of connection with Gary more.

Gary thanked the guests for being such a great crowd too quickly, too soon, and Mark found out that he – Mark – had managed to down an entire pint of beer. His nerves settling, he just _had_ to have that second chat with Gary.

Mark pushed through the excited crowd and found Gary talking to a lady that he recognized as Rob’s next-door neighbour. They were talking about Gary's cover of an 80s song that he did not remember the name of.

Gary caught Mark's eye, shook the lady's hand , and joined Mark next to a table full of half-filled glasses of beer and champagne. Spencer the dog was sleeping soundly underneath it.

‘I see that you've made fans,’ said Mark, nodding at Rob's next-door neighbour. She was talking to a couple of mates now.

‘I see that you're finally able to string a decent sentence together,’ Gary said in jest. He spotted the empty beer glass in Mark's left hand. ‘You been drinking?’

Mark looked at his glass like he’d only just noticed it. Gary sounded like he disapproved of his drinking, which Mark found odd; he’d definitely marked Gary as a red wine sort of guy. Mark said, ‘Erm, yeah. . .?’

‘Not too much, I hope?’ said Gary. Again, that tone of disapproval.

‘No, why?’

Gary leaned forward and whispered something into Mark's ear.

‘. . . _Seriously_?’ Mark squeaked. His face had turned scarlet.

Gary nodded. ‘Oh yeah.’

His heart racing, Mark put his glass on the table and opened his mouth to say something bold; unfortunately a sharply dressed waiter then decided to clear the empty glasses from the table.

_Bye, bye, privacy._

‘So, er,’ said Mark, aware of the waiter breathing down his neck, ‘That song you did last, you . . . wrote it yourself?’

Gary nodded proudly. He stared at the waiter in an attempt to tell him to fuck off telepathically. It didn’t work. ‘Yeah.’

‘Composition all yours?’ said Mark.

‘All mine. You like?’

The words that Gary had whispered to him were still ringing in his ears.

‘God, yes,’ said Mark enthusiastically. He was starting to feel very hot. He loosened his bright tie and shoved it into his trouser pocket. He undid one or two buttons of his shirt, and he felt a twinge of desire when he caught Gary staring at the newly exposed skin. ‘That, erm, melodic repetition you did in the second verse with the, you know . . .’ He made a vague gesture, and Gary understood what he meant immediately. ‘That was brilliant.’

The waiter placed new glasses of wine on the table, and Gary and Mark briefly discussed the lyrical content of Gary’s song.

‘You write songs yourself?’ said Gary.  
  
Mark blushed. He didn't really like talking about this subject, no matter how hot the person at the other end of the conversation was. ‘I, er, no,’ Mark lied, and he regretted it immediately. Lying to potential lovers minutes after you’ve met them usually wasn’t a good sign.

If he lied about his favourite pastime, what _else_ would he be lying about down the line?

Mark’s phone started ringing. It was Rob.

Rob had always told Mark to pursue his dreams of becoming an artist, no matter how out of reach they seemed. Whenever some record label mogul told Mark to stop pretending he was anything more than an amateur songwriter, Rob was there to cheer Mark up. If _he_ understood why Mark stayed up till two in the morning to write songs, Gary definitely would, too.

Incidentally, Rob also kept telling Mark to stop being a single crybaby and just fucking _hook up with someone_.

Mark suddenly didn't feel like lying to Gary anymore.

‘Actually,’ said Mark, staring at his phone, ‘I . . . write a lot, you know. Erm. Every day, actually. Yeah. Fucking love it. _Hate_ it, too, sometimes, you know, what with —’ He made a large gesture in the air, indicating some sort of higher force, and Gary nodded. ‘But what can you do, eh?’

The phone stopped ringing. The phone vibrated instead, indicating a new text message. Ayda’s.

Mark bit his lip. ‘Fuck, sorry, I've _really_ got to take this. Erm.’ He scratched his right ear anxiously.  ‘See you back here in five?’ He didn't want to leave Gary, but he couldn't just pretend his tasks as resident party planner were no longer relevant either. He _was_ still in charge. Sort of.

Gary smiled at him reassuringly. ‘I’ve shown you _my_ songwriting talents, ‘s only fair if you show me yours.’

Mark didn’t know how to respond to that. ‘Is that a . . . _yes_?’

‘Absolutely.’

Mark grinned and started towards the door. Gary squeezed Mark’s hand softly when he passed him.

This was turning out to be one hell of a party.

+++

When Mark joined the happy couple only moments later, the ghost of Gary's touch was still imprinted on his hand. It's as though Gary had left a permanent tattoo on the back of his hand, the ink coursing through his veins like a shot of adrenaline.

Mark didn’t dare think about how it would feel if Gary touched him all over. 

Rob and Ayda, it turned out, we're having a bit of a panic attack because Spencer the dog had “suddenly disappeared”. Mark quickly assured them that Spencer was sleeping underneath the drinks table and that they had nothing to worry about. He promised Rob that he'd give Spencer some snacks for being such a good dog tonight and excused himself.

He wanted no more distractions tonight.

Right before Rob’s call, Mark had started to open up to Gary. This is something he’d never done with someone new before; usually he’d meet a guy at some pub, wrap him around his finger with a dodgy pick-up line, take him home, shag him senseless, wake up in an empty bed and spend the rest of the week moping because the guy hadn’t called him back.

He wanted to use the next moment with Gary to perhaps, _perhaps_ tell him everything that was on his mind.

Mark discovered with relief that Gary was where he had left him, looking as dreamy as ever.

‘You back already?’ said Gary.

‘Didn’t wanna leave you on your own for too long.’

Gary considered this. He put his hand on the small of Mark’s back and led him away from the crowd. ‘Let’s get some privacy, you and I,’ said he, and they left.  
  
Wordlessly, Gary led Mark to the garden via a narrow, winding corridor that Mark hadn't even noticed when he first went to see the mansion four months ago. Clearly Gary must have been here for a wedding before. Mark saw two amorous wedding guests that he did not recognize quietly slip through a door that was ajar, and his heart started racing in anticipation. Was Gary going to lead him into a dark, empty room, too? Had he walked these corridors with a complete stranger by his side before?

They ascended a small staircase, and soon Mark was breathing in the scent of hot summer air. It was faintly mixed with the unmistakable scent of lilies and lavender, and Mark was reminded of the parties his family always held in their tiny back garden in the summer. _This_ garden here was considerably larger, though: the area they were in was huge, encapsulating the entire mansion with an abundance of grass and flowers. A fountain was just up ahead, marking the meeting point of two tall hedges. 

 _No-one would be able to see them here._  

Mark remembered that he had briefly been in the garden during his first visit. It had looked intimate then, almost too fragile to host Rob’s party at. Now that it was night, with the mansion as their only source of light, it looked like every corner and rose bush might hold dangerous, exciting stories.

_Theirs._

‘We were talking about writing songs, I think, before we got interrupted,’ said Gary. It was the first time he’d spoken after leaving the mansion, and Mark’s heart did a strange little back flip. He had no idea a person’s voice could evoke so many different emotions. ‘So, erm, you a singer-songwriter too, then?’ 

‘I sing and write songs, yes.’ 

Mark didn't really like thinking of himself as a singer-songwriter. “Singer-songwriter” is what you use for the lucky bastards who get discovered on YouTube — mainly, artists who are still young, and incredibly talented. Mark wasn't either of those things; he wasn’t good enough to upload his shit to Youtube anyway, and he wasn’t young enough to be deemed interesting by talent scouts. 

At least if _he_ didn’t consider himself a singer-songwriter, it would hurt less if others didn’t, either.

Gary asked, ‘So why have I never heard of you? You’re good-looking enough to appear in music videos and everything, _I_ ’d say,’ he added casually, and it definitely sounded to Mark like he was flirting with him. _Again_. Maybe Mark was getting his hopes up, maybe he had imagined the words Gary whispered into his ear, but _fuck it_ — Gary thought he was handsome, and that opened up a whole new range of possible endings and beginnings to this wedding reception. 

Still, Mark didn’t feel like answering his question. _Yet_. ‘Why have I never heard _your_ songs on the radio?’ he asked Gary instead. 

Gary scoffed. His laugh sounded hollow. ‘Don't think they'll play them, my songs. It's all just young boys and girls, isn't it, on the radio these days? I mean, Radio 1 won’t even C-list your songs if you’re over thirty fucking five.’ Gary frowned. He seemed to be contemplating whether to share his thoughts or keep them to himself. One look at Mark, and he made up his mind. ‘Been thinking about quitting, anyway. Writing and recording, I mean. There's no point if me songs aren't being heard by anyone.’ 

Mark had been writing long enough to know what Gary was talking about. ‘Like shouting at the dark,’ he mused. 

Gary looked at Mark hard, weighing his words. His gray-green eyes were staring at Mark so intensely that Mark had to look away. ‘Yes, that. Exactly like that. You know what it feels like then, Mark?’

Mark nodded shyly. He felt himself grow hotter, like someone had ignited a fire underneath him. He had never told anyone how he felt about this topic before. Apart from Rob, most of his mates just assumed that he enjoyed working at the bank. He didn’t. ‘Been trying to get me songs picked up by record labels for years, you know, so yeah, I do. It's . . .’ He thought about why this hurt so much. ‘It’s not just enough to _write_ about how I'm feeling, it's . . .’ 

 _Why was this not enough?_  

Mark looked at Gary. He was nodding fast, wordlessly urging him to continue. Mark did so. ‘I want people, _real_ people to — to hear me songs, to validate . . .’

For years Mark had been trying to figure out why writing songs and getting them “out there” meant as much as it did, but now that he had to justify his feelings in front of someone else, he didn’t know how. 

All he knew was that the reasons hurt too much to bear alone. 

Mark said finally, ‘I – I want them — _listeners_ , I mean, to tell me that I'm not alone in dealing with all this shit, you know, that my feelings matter. If I keep me songs to meself, then what’s the fucking point?’ 

Gary stopped in his tracks. They were now standing in front of the fountain, and Gary was looking at Mark as though he'd just had an epiphany. He seemed to have flushed a dark red. ‘That's how _I_ feel. _All_ the time.’ 

A beat. 

 _Gary knew._  

‘When you start writing a song,’ Mark said, his fast speech matching his heart rate, ‘Do you get really excited, but then when you finish it, you're like “ _Oof_ , what the fuck do I do with it now?”’ 

‘ _Yes_.’ 

It's like a light had been turned on inside the garden. Suddenly, everything seemed so much brighter: there was _finally_ someone in Mark's life who knew what it was like to feel as misunderstood and misrepresented in art as he did. For some reason, that made Gary even more attractive than he already was. 

Mark's phone started ringing. He looked at the display. Rob. Again. 

‘I should probably take this,’ Mark said apologetically. Gary responded by yanking the phone from his hands and throwing it into the fountain.

Mark had two seconds to grieve over the phone before Gary kissed him hard.  
  
In those first few microseconds of the kiss, a lot of things went through Mark’s mind. Part of him _knew_ that he should not reciprocate the kiss even if he wanted to; snogging a total stranger at his best friend’s wedding reception was completely unacceptable!

Then again, the kiss was precisely what Mark’s dreams were made of: it was the unexpected guitar twang in the second verse of a love song, the climatic middle eight, the strings at the end of the chorus. It was everything he had ever described in a love song and more.

Of _course_ he would reciprocate the kiss.

Mark became very aware of everything at once, of the pressure of Gary's mouth, and the smell of his aftershave, and his sighs and his hands — _fuck_ , _those hands_. Gary's tongue slid past Mark’s lips into his mouth, and Mark moaned into the kiss, pulling Gary closer, closer, closer. It’s like kissing Gary was filling up a hole in his heart that he didn’t know he had, a hole that had been left open by endless years of rejection upon rejection, now made whole by Gary’s similar experiences. Mark was the guitar and Gary was his owner, tuning him until he felt and sounded better.

Mark was vaguely aware of a pair of hands unbuttoning his shirt. The summer air felt hot against his skin. Then came Gary's warm hands on his bare hipbones, and he felt like he was burning up.

He didn't care that someone may walk into them. He — did — not — care.

Gary's hands slipped into the back of his trousers, and Mark felt his self-control disappear with each passing second. A voice in his head tried reasoning with him, telling him that what he wanted was wrong and terrible and dirty, but the voice disappeared entirely when Gary’s nails dug into his skin, claiming him.

He needed Gary to fuck him.

When Mark broke off the kiss, they were both panting heavily — their foreheads touching and their bodies pressed close together. Gary's hands were still squeezing Mark’s arse.

‘ _God_ , I need more,’ Mark said huskily. He moved his hands to Gary's belt buckle and traced Gary's lips with his tongue. He wanted to take off Gary’s trousers now and squeeze him and rub him and jerk him off and do all the other things he wanted to do with him, but he needed to be sure that Gary was on the same page as him. He didn’t think he could take the rejection if Gary wasn’t. ‘What'd’ya think?’

Gary merely groaned and kissed Mark again, and that's all the incentive Mark needed. Hands fumbled. Tongues touched. Lines were blurred, and past insecurities discarded; this was no longer just about a shared love for writing. Gary's shirt was unbuttoned – his jacket stayed _on_ though –, and before Gary could so much make sense of it all, Mark’s hand had already found his boxers.

 ‘There's—’ Gary didn't know what he wanted to say next —Mark squeezed his cock — touched him _there_ roughly and then gently and then roughly again — ‘My cars still in the parking lot,’ he said in between wet kisses, ‘We could –‘ Mark twisted his thumb over the tip of Gary’s cock — and Gary lost all his self-control, too. ‘Oh fuck it, c’mon.’

Gary pulled Mark away from the fountain, and they both managed to stumble towards the parking lot, hands and fingers and tongues everywhere.

Gary fumbled in his pockets for his car keys, but Mark stopped him. ‘Not in. _On_ ,’ he said huskily. If he had to wait for this shag only a second longer, he’d spontaneously combust; he needed Gary to take him, and he needed it _now_.

‘You sure?’

‘Yes,’ Mark said, and he licked his lips seductively. ‘ _Fuck me_.’

It wasn’t as romantic as Mark’s usually so profound writing, but it did the trick.

Gary turned Mark around effortlessly, and Mark was suddenly lying face down on the bonnet of the car, his bare stomach pressed hard against the car’s cold, smooth body work. Gary pulled down Mark’s boxers unceremoniously, slapped his arse, and an entirely new kind of desire started burning in the pit of Mark’s belly.

Usually, _Mark_ was the one taking the reins during sexual intercourse. He just _loved_ bossing his lovers around; it gave him the feeling that he could finally be in control of something even when the rest of his life was a fucking shambles. Now, all he wanted was to be fucked by Gary hard, thoroughly and intimately, even if it meant losing control completely.

He no longer gave a shit whether the guests in the mansion were having a good time or not. _He_ was, and that’s all that mattered.

‘You’re not so nervous and awkward anymore, _are_ you?’ said Gary, referring to when they first met on this unexpectedly beautiful summer night. That first chat felt so long ago now.

Mark could hear Gary spit on his hand, and he practically _begged_ Gary to take him.

Gary didn't need much convincing: he wet Mark’s arsehole with his hand, the excess saliva trickling down Mark’s inner thighs, and he slowly slipped in one finger. Gary's nails felt sharp against Mark's entrance.

Then came another finger; it was less gentle this time, and Mark bit his lip to stop himself from making a sound.

Mark was terrified of getting caught. He didn’t want to be known to Rob’s mates as ‘the guy who shagged the wedding singer’. This was Rob and Ayda’s special day, and overshadowing it with controversy was the last thing he wanted to do. It didn’t stop Mark from feeling incredibly _aroused_ by the whole thing, though; the idea that someone could be watching them _right_ now — Mark with his arse sticking out, Gary fingering him expertly — was almost enough to get him off. 

He really wished he was capable of writing slow sex jams. He _might_ be once Gary’s finished with him.

Mark mewled when Gary added yet another digit, and he rubbed his arse against Gary's hand so Gary could enter him deeper.

‘More,’ Mark caught himself saying. He didn’t care how desperate he must have seemed.

‘You’re a right lil’ beggar, _you_ are,’ Gary said matter-of-factly, which only made Mark grind his arse into Gary’s fingers harder. ‘Oh all right then, but I’m gonna charge you extra for missing me Empire marathon tonight,’ he added in jest, and slapped Mark’s arse again with his free hand.

‘I’m payin’ you enough as it is,’ Mark moaned.  

‘You’re _really_ not, mate.’

Mark’s cock twitched against the bonnet when Gary pulled out his fingers roughly. It hurt, but _fuck_ it; Mark needed more, more, more.

By the time Mark had more or less recovered from Gary's talented fingers, Gary had already gone down on his knees. He spread Mark's arse cheeks wide with his hands and spat on Mark’s arsehole without warning. Mark whimpered in anticipation; Gary clearly knew what he was doing.

Mark didn't think his evening could get any better until Gary licked his perineum and pressed his tongue inside his arse.

‘Oh God oh God oh God,’ said Mark, his eyes shut tight, his forehead pressed against the bonnet. He’d never been that aroused, ever, ever, and Gary _knew_ ; he hummed smugly, sending vibrations up Mark’s spine — almost perfectly in time with the thumping of the music in the background.

Mark was seeing stars. He could feel Gary’s stubble against his cheeks, and every thought he had ever had was tossed out of the proverbial window.

Earlier that week, Mark had made a checklist of things he wanted to have done by half eleven today. Wake-up call at five? Check. Get his mate from work to do his tie? Check. Pick up Spencer at the nice lady’s doggie day-care? Check. (Okay, Spencer _did_ then slobber him and ruin his trousers, but still.) Calm down Rob’s mum? Check. Hand over Rob’s wedding ring? Check. Sign the marriage license after the ceremony? Check. Give a toast? Check.

The only personal indulgent he had allowed himself to give in to that day was trying a bite-sized sample of Rob and Ayda’s wedding cake. That’s it. The rest of his day was devoted entirely to the happy couple. He hadn’t even _considered_ hooking up with, let alone _meeting_ a beautiful stranger at the wedding ceremony when he wrote his list, so by default his day had already exceeded all his expectations — and the clock hadn’t even struck twelve yet.

But now that Gary was licking Mark’s cock up and down slowly, Mark found himself wanting to indulge in yet more pleasantries. 

‘Need . . . you . . . in . . . me,’ Mark said. It came out as a whimper, barely audible over the background music.  

Gary spat on Mark’s arsehole again. ‘You sure?’

‘ _Yes_.’

Gary got up slowly, placed one hand on Mark’s back to keep him from wriggling too much, and rubbed the head of his cock against Mark’s arsehole teasingly. Gary’s cock felt hard and big and thick against his entrance, and Mark lifted up his arse as best as he could with Gary still holding him in place.

‘ _God_ , you’re big,’ Mark caught himself saying. He knew how stupid it sounded, how desperately cliché, but Mark really wasn’t so sure whether he’d be able to walk back to the mansion after Gary was done with him. He may have to sit out the conga line that he knew was still on the party itinerary.

‘Christ, you’re desperate,’ said Gary breathlessly, rubbing his cock against Mark’s perineum. ‘You _really_ sure you’re ready for this, mate? Cos I can easily find you a wedding singer with a smaller cock if you’re not,’ he added cheekily.  

‘Yes, God yes, I’m ready, _please_ , Gary.’

‘As you wish.’

Gary positioned himself just right and pushed into Mark a little slower than Mark had expected. It was tantalizingly languid and painful at the same time, but it was _so_ good to finally feel whole again. Mark heard Gary moan for the first time that evening when Mark’s heat wrapped around Gary’s cock fully, tickling Mark’s prostate — and Gary pulled out again as slowly as he had entered him.

Mark groaned. He didn’t have the patience for yet more teasing.

‘For fuck’s sake,’ said Mark, a little angrier than he had intended, and he repositioned himself so that he could slide his hand down his abdomen and touch himself. He was able to stroke himself twice until Gary decided to slap away his hand and pin Mark’s arms firmly behind his back. Mark wouldn't be able to leave even if he wanted to, and Mark _loved_ it; he hadn’t met many guys who dared pin him down like that.

Gary placed his free hand on Mark’s neck and squeezed. Mark moaned, and Gary squeezed a little tighter. ‘You’re a desperate slut, aren’t you, Mark?’

‘Yes. Yes, I am, Gary,’ said Mark desperately, his voice barely more than a whisper. ‘Punish me for it.’

‘I’m not surprised the record labels denied you to be honest with you, Mark, with that dirty mouth of yours,’ Gary said in jest.

‘You’ve no idea.’

Gary hummed in satisfaction, and he pushed in again without warning. It was rougher and more painful than the first time, and Mark responded with an extremely pornographic moan — a moan so loud that it would no doubt have been overheard by all the wedding guests if it wasn’t for their loud singing and cheering.

Gary pushed in and out, in and out hard in a relentlessly fast rhythm, rendering Mark a whimpering and moaning mess beneath him. Mark’s cock bounced against the car with every thrust, and he wished Gary would touch him there and guide him to his release.

‘Do you sound this good when you sing?’ said Gary. He slowed down and thrust in again and again hard, his ballsacks banging against Mark’s naked skin. The only response he got from Mark was yet another moan. 

Gary’s movements were becoming very erratic very fast, and before Mark knew it he was on his back again, his arms and hands free to do whatever he pleased.

‘Not gonna last long,’ said Gary apologetically. He kept a firm grip on Mark’s neck and started jerking him off with his free hand, matching his pattern to his thrusts. Mark’s mind settled on the image of Gary playing the piano with those long fingers of his, and he felt himself climb closer and closer to the edge of orgasm.

They’d be able to make _such_ sweet music together.

The fact that Gary was pretty much still dressed – albeit with his trousers down his ankles and his shirt torn wide open – was an even bigger turn-on. If they ever got together again, Mark would love to ride Gary naked, with Gary still dressed in a smart suit and tie.

Gary leaned forward and kissed Mark again, their torsos pressed together hotly. Gary’s chest hair tickled Mark’s sensitive skin; it made Mark want to pull Gary closer and closer until they became one and the same person.

Mark dug his nails into the back of Gary's neck and whispered sweet nothings into his ear, and Gary came inside of him with a delicious groan. Gary continued jerking Mark off, and Mark followed suit not much later with a series of short, high-pitched moans, cum painting his belly and his chest — and his dress shirt.

Gary kissed Mark’s chest and his neck and then his mouth, and Mark thought he could taste himself on Gary's lips. For the umpteenth time that evening, having to be in charge of a wedding reception suddenly didn't seem so bad. 

They lay there on the bonnet of the car for a few minutes or more, just touching and kissing. Mark thought he could hear Rob serenade Ayda in the background (he was singing an upbeat swing song for her – one by Frank Sinatra or Dean Martin, Mark thought), and everything just seemed so perfect. He couldn’t have thought of a better way to end the evening — even if it had probably only just started.

‘You don’t have a shirt spare, do ya?’ said Mark when the adrenaline rush of his orgasm had faded. He was running his fingers up and down Gary’s back lazily, and he wished he could stay here, on the bonnet of this car, forever.

Gary was kissing his ear now, which Gary was glad to find out was a very sensitive spot indeed. ‘Nope. Think I prefer you naked anyway, sorry, mate.’

A pause.

Mark smiled. ‘I could always borrow _yours_.’

Gary was about to give a million reasons as to why this was an awful idea, but Mark interrupted him: ‘You’ve already done _your_ part, _I_ still have to talk to about 132 different guests. I can’t, you know, do that with cum down me shirt,’ he added, gesturing at himself.

Gary couldn’t argue with that. He hopped from the car in a less dignified manner than he would have liked, and started taking off his clothes. The shirt slid off his arms, exposing muscles that Gary’s clothes had done a very good job at hiding, and Mark wondered why they hadn’t taken their clothes off in the first place. Gary looked amazing shirtless.

Mark followed Gary’s example, took off his dirty shirt and folded it pointlessly on the bonnet of the car.

Gary handed Mark his shirt. He had more or less managed to cover his bare chest with his jacket. ‘I’m gonna need that back though Mark, those things are fucking expensive.’

Mark started buttoning up his borrowed shirt. It looked slightly too big on him. ‘Are you saying’ you’d like to do this again soon?’

‘Yes. God, yes,’ said Gary enthusiastically. Then, more seriously, ‘But I’d also really like that shirt back. Honestly, I can hardly pay me bills, so much money goes into buying fucking shirts for everything.’

Mark grinned. ‘Guess it’s a date, then.’

Despite Mark’s curious absence, the rest of the wedding reception proceeded as any wedding reception should: people danced, gifts were given, slices of cake were eaten, promises made. Robbie and Ayda were so drunk on love that they didn't even notice that Mark’s shirt had changed size (and, er . . . _colour_ . . .) The happy couple simply covered Mark in kisses when he finally came back from “thanking the wedding singer for being able to come on such short notice,” blessing their mate over and over again for the great night he'd made possible.

Little did they know that – in the time it had taken Robbie to get through three questionable live renditions of swing songs – Mark had perhaps written the first verse of a love song of his own.


End file.
